Music Box
by ThatCaveYouCallAChest
Summary: Music can be a very powerful thing.


((Play this whilst reading, if you want:Pan's Labyrinth Lullaby - Extended Credit to NerdEm cee for the video, I don't own Pan's Labyrinth or Hetalia))

Wind it up.

Set it down on the table.

A strained whirr.

The same old tune floating out into the cloying air.

High, plucked notes swirled and swayed around the old, musty armchair, bringing a tinny, artificial, melancholic colour into the room and struggling to reach tenuous, fragile fingers past the doorframe into the rest of the house, clawing to keep as much in its possession as possible, to keep alive for the longest it possibly could.

The tune could honestly be the only thing still indicating life in the whole of the dark, empty house. Corners and carvings that once smiled light and warm familiarity now greedily hoarded darkness, spitting and scowling at anyone who dared come near, to try and remind them of what they had been. Scratches and fingerprints in uneven dust on surfaces that had in the past been nourished and kept gleaming with painstaking care. Plumped pillows and smoothed covers remained in their welcoming state, wishing and praying for use before they frayed and faded from sheer age. Bright, vibrant colours and sweet fragrances that had once graced the building from elegant and cheery blooms placed on windowsills were now dull and cloying, the flowers having bowed their heads and died as silently as they had lived, now clinging as frail, emaciated corpses to the edges of the vases that they had adorned in a plea to not be forgotten. The air of this house had once been bursting with life; laughter, love, music, arguments, peacemaking, the squeals and sounds of children at play either indoors or outside, in what had been a well loved and tended garden. Now, the borders of the same were overrun, the grasses that had managed to cling to survival long and matted, bare patches of earth screaming for succour to the sky far ahead.

Now, only the music remained, a crude and cruel imitation of what had once been.

Back in the room that contained the source of this, liver spotted, shaking hands crept out to rest on the arms of the frayed chair. The occupant let out a long, shuddering sigh as the melody embraced him as if an old friend, rheumy blue eyes blinking and closing to leave him marooned with his thoughts.

It hadn't always been like this. Back when his hair still retained the colour of summer sun on cornfields and wasn't bleached by age to a wispy, dead white; back when he was young and strong and had the world ahead of him, and the energy to run straight at it, seize it in steady, eager hands.

Now... He was barely strong enough to make his wavering, painfully slow way upstairs, and every day was a grind. Just another step closer to his inevitable death.

Sometimes he wished it would just be today.

That was when the old music box was gently, carefully retrieved from its hiding spot in one of the drawers. That was when trembling, wrinkled hands struggled to turn the key enough times to grant him some respite. That was when the box was softly set down - always on the exact same spot on the stained, aged coffee table - and a mechanical whirr would precede the haunting song.

This tune and him went back years. Back to when he had travelled north, fresh out of university and full of energy and the arrogance of youth, and this music box had caught his boyfriend's eye. It had been his birthday present to him for that year. And he had loved it.

The same, deftly and intricately patterned wooden box had stayed with them throughout their relationship, always taking pride of place somewhere in their living room. Be it in their first poky little flat, the high rise (slightly bigger) apartment that they had only taken to be closer to work, or this very same house, where they had eventually settled down.

It had seen them gently sway around the space in the centre of the room, foreheads touching and holding each other so closely that it was almost as if they couldn't tell where each one began and ended.

It had seen them fall asleep on the sofa after long, exhausting days, only needing a blanket and each other to feel safe and comfortable enough to do so.

It had sung when they were happy, sad, when they wished for romance, when they needed to relax, when they weren't sure what they were feeling at all, when they needed comfort, when they needed to be left alone. It had sung on the night his husband had woken up in the small hours of the morning, inconsolable because he had dreamt of his death; when their parents died; when their child or grandchildren had imperiously demanded a bedtime song and for one reason or another they couldn't sing themselves.

And now it sung to unearth those same memories, to remind him of what he had possessed, of what a life he had led.

He opened his eyes after a moment, tears stinging at the corners and covering the room in a watery blur. He allowed them to well until he felt them threaten to spill, at which point he simply dashed them away with the sleeve of his shirt, deciding instead to stare across the room at the mirror over the fireplace.

His husband used to dance when he thought he couldn't see him. Used to wind up the music box, set it down, bow to an invisible partner before describing a slow, stately waltz around the room. His ash-blond hair used to fan out when he spun, surrounding his head in a gentle halo of burning light when the sun caught it just right. Long, pale, slender digits used to caress the air, stretching and extending to act like graceful, elegant wings, moving perfectly in time as the equally beautiful, sculptured body continued to twirl and sweep across the carpet sanctified by his actions. Perfectly curved eyelashes would brush defined cheekbones, and thin, pale lips would twitch up in a gentle smile as he danced to an otherworldly audience. At times like those, he himself would simply hover by the door, absorbing the sheer beauty and grace of what he was blessed to witness.

After a while, he had dared to join him. Only sometimes. But he still did. And they would spin together, caught up in the simple but exquisite actions. Deep cobalt eyes would sometimes meet his as the other body moved in perfect time with his own, seemingly anticipating every move he would make before he even knew he would himself. Other times, he would be allowed to bury his face in silken, golden locks as his love hid his face in his shoulder.

If he focused hard enough, he could see him doing the exact same thing. A vision, but so lifelike he could fool himself to thinking it was real, twirled across his living room, same heart-wrenchingly beautiful smile tugging at his features as it always had, young and so very perfect, so very beautiful. And now... As he managed to stand from his chair, struggle across to where the apparition spun in the musty air, stepped in front of it... Now it smiled straight at him, eyes unclouded and untouched by age, skin smooth and soft as it slipped its hand into his and led him into the same old dance that they had danced so many times before, but never enough.

They moved slower than before, the spirit graciously allowing for his aching bones and the fragility of age, but it was enough. Enough to hold him in his arms, enough to see those eyes meeting his again, enough to feel how again they moved as one. A mumbled, half-hearted insult was sighed against his cheek, and he let out a short, shaky laugh. He had known him long enough to know when an insult was actually an endearment.

"I missed you too, elskede..." The cracked, fragile words were swallowed by the void surrounding them both, but the wraith huffed out a small breath and burrowed his face in his shoulder again to hide the smile he had been blossom over his face at those words. Feeling a shadow of his old smile claim his own chapped and aged lips, he dipped his head to hide in the soft locks in turn, letting out another gentle, stuttered breath.

They moved for a while longer in silence, before his soul retrieved his head from his shoulder, tilting his head up to lightly brush soft, gentle lips over his. He let his eyes flutter closed, trying to tighten his grip on him, hold him close like they used to, but before he could he felt his love step back, out of his arms, away from him despite his feeble attempts to clutch at him, keep him close.

Knowing what he would see, he almost didn't dare to open his eyes.

But sure enough, when he did, he was alone. Dust mites were the only thing that danced in the stray sunbeams that struggled through the frayed curtains, the music leaving him trapped in the moment for a little longer as it ensnared him in spiteful memory of what had once been.

A final, lingering note, and the tune ground to a halt, releasing him. He drew a deep breath, one hand lifting to clamp over his mouth and eyes screwing shut as the silence hit him harder than any sledgehammer, his laboured breaths the only thing embellishing the air.

When he could trust himself to move again, he stumbled the few paces back to his armchair, gently lowering himself down onto it and simply sitting there for a moment, dead eyes staring across the room again. A moment longer, and the fingers reached over again, carefully scooping up the box and moving it to his lap.

Wind it up.

Set it down on the table.

A strained whirr.

The same old tune.


End file.
